


A Masquerade is Just a Well-Dressed Fiasco

by corvidConstellation



Series: Urban Magic Bandom [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: A Fever You Can't Sweat Out Era, Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Gargoyle Brendon Urie, Gun Violence, Human Jon Walker, M/M, Minor Character Death, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Werewolf Spencer Smith, Werewolves, Witch Ryan Ross, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24332506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidConstellation/pseuds/corvidConstellation
Summary: Jon tries to do his best in a world secretly chock-full of magic and supernatural beings. He works with Tom and the Academy Clan in the resistance against Hunters who would rid the world of the Other Folk, but Jon himself is not magical in the least. He's human. He does not belong.Enter a Mormon gargoyle, a poetic witch, and a long-suffering werewolf.
Relationships: Implied William Beckett/Mike Carden, Ryan Ross & Spencer Smith, Ryan Ross & Spencer Smith & Brendon Urie & Jon Walker, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Tom Conrad & Jon Walker, implied William Beckett/Tom Conrad
Series: Urban Magic Bandom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771930
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	A Masquerade is Just a Well-Dressed Fiasco

**Author's Note:**

> Strap in, y'all. We're goin' for a roadtrip.

**5 September 2005**  
**(between OR and CA)**

Jon wakes up in the trunk of a moving van.

It’s rumbling along on the path, the slightly cloudy afternoon sky visible through the window. Jon shifts around on his makeshift bed of blankets-atop-duffel-bags. He knows where he is — or rather, he knows what _vehicle_ he’s in. The current location of the van remains to be seen, but his point is that he hasn’t been spontaneously kidnapped. Bill and Mike are in the front seats, and Butcher has the middle row, which leaves Tom in the back row and Jon in the trunk. Somewhere within about a mile of this van, Adam rides in the other car.

“Where are we?” Jon asks, sitting up.

“NoCal, I’m pretty sure,” Tom says, leaning over the back seat. “You get a good rest?”

“Five-star rating from me,” Jon says in mock satisfaction. Before his brief nap, he’d spent about 48 hours straight playing lookout. He rubs at the gunk under his eyes and looks out the back of the van, past the trailer and at the road stretching behind them. It’s lined with hills chock full of pine trees. “I got a full three hours of sleep in. It’s quite a life we’re living.”

“Poor baby,” Tom commiserates.

“I’m only human.”

That’s a loaded statement, considering he’s _literally_ the only actual human in the car.

“Buck up, Jonny,” Butcher says, “we’re back in sunny weather. You won’t freeze in your flip-flops now.”

“Thank god,” William groans from the driver’s seat. He and Mike are covered head to toe in gloves and hoodies and neck gaiters that don’t fit the car’s temperature or modern fashion. “It was so fucking cold. I thought I was gonna kick it.”

“It was Oregon,” Jon says.

“It’s September,” William says indignantly. “You’re a freak of nature with those flip-flops. Maybe you are Other, because I was fully clothed in close-toed shoes and I was freezing.”

Jon rolls his eyes with a smile and lets it slide that William is impervious to hypothermia.

“I’m living it up here before we go home to the Windy City,” Bill continues. “I swear to god, if you guys don’t come to the beach with me then I am quitting this fucking clan right now and you’ll all have to suffer and learn how to live without me, I guess. And you won’t, because who could live without me once they’ve had it? Swear to god. Beach day is in our future.”

“We’re allergic to sunlight,” Mike sighs in exasperation. “We’ll fucking die if you drag us on a beach day.”

“I mean… y’ know, fuck you. What if I’m bougie and carry around an umbrella?” William asks. “I could rock an umbrella. I could get you a pretty one, Mike. Like, one with lace? Frills. The pretty ones, what’s the word?”

“Parasol?” Tom offers.

“ _Yes!_ Tomrad understands,” Bill says.

“Don’t be fooled. He only knows that from movies,” Butcher mumbles. “We’re too young to have ever lived through that fashion era.”

“We’re not buying umbrellas or parasols,” Mike says firmly.

“Fine. Night expedition,” Bill says easily.

Jon glances over the car from the back, where he has a vantage point of all of them. If he listens closely, he’ll hear the way Tom’s still trying to find his way into the group dynamic since he’s only been around for a couple years, just like Butcher. Tom is amazing - a powerhouse, really - who's outpaced every group he's ever been in. The Academy is the first group that's ever matched him and he seeks William's approval like junkie to a dealer's pills. Meanwhile, Mike and Bill have this deep, incomprehensibly complex relationship. Jon has a suspicion that they're fucking. Or married. Or deeply in love, but in that kind of old, poetic, romantic way where they'll spend centuries deeply in love and never say anything or act on it. Or maybe they really do hate each other, but work together well. They bicker like a married couple, though. An onlooker with no context might think they're just a bunch of young men taking an autumn road trip along the Pacific coast.

He knows what this trip is about, though. He knows it ends in blood, and he even knows the names of the poor souls unfortunate enough to have Bill’s clan sicced on them.

* * *

**5 September 2005**  
**San Francisco, CA**

As per usual, Jon finds himself in charge of figuring nearly everything out. Mike still hovers over his shoulder when possible, double-checking arrangements and shopping lists. Still, when it comes down to it, Jon is the one who’s sent to check in to the hotel and make grocery runs and find a place to inconspicuously print out the information for each of their assigned names from this tour’s Black Book. Part of that comes down to Jon’s inconspicuous nature. He is, after all, the only human they have. He has experience in management and subterfuge too, from 504. More than that, though, he’s earned their trust over months and months of sorting out their shit. Jon frequently gets the feeling that they can and will commit manslaughter out in the open if it’s more convenient than hiding it, and he’d rather make sure they don’t get caught by human authorities. Not because it would save his criminal record, but because they would just slaughtering a whole precinct because _that’s_ convenient too.

By the time he gets back to the hotel he’d checked everyone into, he’s the slightest bit dead on his feet. He cards himself into his room and drops the four grocery bags on the carpeted floor, bending only to pick up the papers he had printed from the nearest public library. Butcher doesn’t move from his bed to help.

“Tom, would you go get the others to come in here?” Jon asks quietly as he pages quickly through the papers.

“Do it yourself,” Tom says.

Jon could punch him. “I’m not nocturnal. I’m tired. Can you go get the others?”

“Jon,” Tom says slowly in the kind of arrogant way that only the best of best friends can get away with.

Instead of losing his temper, Jon sighs and turns on his heel, pushing his way out the door to the next door over. He knocks on the door and waits.

Mike opens it.

“Please work your magic and get everyone in one room,” Jon pleads quietly. “I’ll even do the whole debrief for you, I just need to get this over with so I can sleep.”

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” Mike says. “You’re not all that useful when you’re fuckin' incompetent.”

“You’re _dangerously_ close to getting my point.”

Mike huffs out a brief, rare chuckle. “I’ll get Beckett and Sisky.”

“Thanks,” Jon whispers.

Five minutes of petulant disorder later and he finally has them all sitting on the beds in the other room while he stands in front of the hotel TV with his papers.

“Okay, targets here in San Fran. We’re looking for two teams of Hunters who work in conjunction. All humans, but no specific targeted species. They feed each other intel and sweep the city for stragglers. I think they’ve been taking out a few dozen Other per year for a while. They’re smart though, don’t go for wolves every moon or witches every pagan holiday. They switch up who they target and when, and the problem’s gonna be finding both teams at the same time so they don’t spook,” Jon says. “If one of the Hunter teams gets away while we get rid of the other, then we’ve failed half the contract and I’m pretty sure that with their body count, they know how to lose a tail. I mean it; they’re professionals. Guys, if we lose them, they’re gone.”

He’s reading all of this from the contract that Bill signed for what seems to be a comically small amount of human money considering that the agreement is magic-related assassination. Logically, there must be some under-the-table compensation. He doesn’t look into it too much, though. All he cares about is whether the people they kill deserve it and whether he gets paid enough to make a living, and when both of those things line up, he has no business interrogating Beckett’s business choices.

“Now for the good news,” Jon says, handing out his extra copies of the intel he made for each of the Hunters. “There’s only five of them total in both teams combined, and neither team has ever taken on more than two Others at the same time. They rely on stalking and having the element of surprise. I don’t want to call it early, but I’m pretty sure that once you catch them, they’re toast.”

“We shouldn’t put our bets on that,” Mike says instantly.

Bill visibly deflates. “You’re so _bitchy_ at the end of contract tours.”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Mike mumbles. “Never underestimate long-time professional Hunters. Their recent habits aren’t a promise of their ability. Who fucking knows what arsenal they have. Look at this paper, Jon doesn’t know.”

The group collectively looks up at Jon for some kind of response. Jon frowns because honestly, there’s no way he’d have access to that information, he’s not an oracle. “How would I ever be able to give you an accurate estimate of their weaponry? If I knew where their hideout was, we’d be done by now.”

“This is good intel anyway,” Butcher says. “Timing is unpredictable, but location isn’t. We can stake out the hot spots and wait around.”

“That’s a fuckin’ plan right there,” Sisky says definitively. “Seconded. We should do that.”

“Then I guess the question is who’s turning into bait,” Mike says. “Whoever it is needs backup, so that if they take the bait nobody ends up alone in a hairy situation.”

“I love being bait,” Bill says. “It’s like acting. All the, like, theatrics. It’s fucking fun.”

“We should spread out as much as we can,” Mike declares. “As much variety as we’ve got. We don’t need another vampire going out, so Sisky and I’ll be on guard duty. Butcher and Tom should also be playing bait.”

“We don’t have enough people to cover three baits at once,” Tom argues.

“We need all the chances we’ve got,” Mike shrugs. “What’s the probability that our two baits get snatched up by the exact two groups on the same night? We need to even the playing field.”

“Jon can cover you if you’re worried,” Butcher says. “You miscounted. We have enough people to cover three baits if you count Jon.”

Jon feels the tension in the room spike, even if he’s not sure who exactly it’s coming from. The hostility is definitely against Tom, no doubt about that, but that shifts some of it against Jon by default. He knows exactly which implicit point is being made, too. The notion that even Tom doesn’t trust Jon’s ability. That Jon’s dead weight here. That he’s only here for convenience.

Or maybe they’re implying that he’s here as a snack.

Tom shakes his head dismissively. “Jon and I can handle ourselves. I’m more concerned about how we’re going to sync everything up.”

“Do we even _have_ any other options?” Sisky asks curiously.

“Well, we don’t have a time limit. This’s the last contract of the tour. We could always stick around and try to find them the old fashioned way with phone books and addresses,” Jon shrugs. “But that kind of research is a needle in a haystack. And it’d take days of checking. And stalking, to make sure we were right.”

“We’ll just have to scope this city out ourselves, then,” Bill says, suddenly business-forward and commanding while he lays down the ground rules for their stay. “No deep conversations. We want to blend and look like we’re just visitors nobody would miss. No connections, no ties, and no taking people home when _you’re_ supposed to be the victim they’re looking for.”

Jon sticks out his open palm in Mike’s direction while Butcher starts talking about what glamours he can make to mask auras and power.

“What?” Mike asks, annoyed and trying to listen to the conversation.

“Me human. Human need sleep,” Jon says.

“Don’t take the big bed,” Mike grumbles, handing over a key card.

Jon stumbles out of the room and passes out as soon as he gets next door.

* * *

**8 September 2005**  
**San Francisco, CA**

Two days later, Jon stands at the entrance of an alleyway with his hands in his pockets, hovering over his sidekick.

The van pulls up to the curb and parks right where it’s illegal to do so. That’s the least important of their ongoing criminal acts, Jon idly thinks. He watches Mike step out of the driver’s seat, walk around the hood, nod to Jon, and pull open the sliding door.

Bill is straddled over the center console of the front seats, leaning forward comically far and staring right at the three passengers they’ve picked up. **“Follow him,”** Bill whispers to the humans, tilting his head at Mike. **“Get up. Follow the leader.”**

Jon watches as the three humans move like molasses to climb out of the van as Mike coaxes them into the alley. They walk slow - slower than humans usually do under Bill’s thrall. But they’re deep in it. He sees the way their eyes are unfocused, almost glassy in the way they stare straight ahead. Thousand-yard-stares. It’s compulsion; a vampire mind trick most comparable to hypnosis. William never fails to abuse the shit out of it instead of making a legitimate thrall.

William climbs forward to follow them, still whispering, **“Mike, follow Mike. Follow. Follow him.”**

Jon closes the door for them and passes the train of newcomers back to the alley. Butcher and Sisky are already there, as they have been for the past ten minutes. They came as soon Jon called them with the message that they’d taken the bait. Of course, by the time they arrived, Jon and Tom had already subdued the Hunters that had come for Tom. At the moment, Tom has his would-be murderers locked in chokeholds as he leans back casually against the brick wall. They can’t run even if they escaped his grasp; Tom broke their ankles nearly half an hour ago. They’re lucky to have survived the initial fight, but then again, they won’t survive much longer.

“Sisky. Grab one,” Mike says quietly.

The three of them make such quick work of the enthralled Hunters that Jon almost misses it. He would have entirely if Bill hadn’t dropped the thrall a split second before they got a hold of the humans. The shortest human blinks out of the thrall fast with suddenly wild eyes, and he gets out half a scream before Mike shoves him into the alley wall and chomps down on his throat. William and Sisky are similarly attached to their humans, holding them tight as they bite down and drain the life from the Hunters.

“You getting the mess?” Tom asks, looking over at Butcher.

“Yeah I got it,” Butcher says. His hands are extended, palms up and locking together at the pinkies and ring fingers. “Mike, stop drooling.”

Mike growls in response.

Jon peers closer to see what that meant. He sees a couple dozen sizeable blood droplets floating in the air around Mike and his victim. Usually, blood splatters from vampire bites are much cleaner - Bill and Sisky can’t have much more than ten levitating blood-drops around them - but to be fair, _that_ human was screaming and resisting before Mike pinned him down.

Sisky finishes first, running his tongue over the bite mark (to seal the wound from leaking) and promptly letting go of the ashen Hunter. It can’t have been more than half a minute since that guy was completely alive. The body hits the ground dead. “Bill, those two mine?”

Bill pulls away from his Hunter, who’s maybe-dead-maybe-unconscious, to follow Sisky’s eyes to the Hunters that Tom is still holding. “All yours, Sisky. Mike and I are fine.”

Mike grunts in approval. That’s all Sisky needs to march up to Tom, take one of his captives and start draining her too.

Jon knows this is the best way to fulfill a contract. He knows that it’s either this or fight to the death, and fights leave traces. At least this way, the three of them don’t have to get their meals from innocents. At least the Hunters had a fighting chance to live before they were subdued.

There are a lot of things Jon has to tell himself so that he can sleep at night.

* * *

Just as they’re packing up the hotel to leave, Bill gets a text.

Ordinarily, this isn’t a big deal. Bill knows more people than Jon thinks he’s ever met. Getting messaged isn’t abnormal. Though, he doesn’t usually drop everything to read over his texts in the middle of the entrance just as they’re about to leave the room.

“William, what the fuck,” Mike grumbles. “Move your ass.”

Bill doesn’t, though. He tilts the sidekick screen so Mike can read it too, and then there were two vampires stuck staring at a tiny phone screen.

“Guys, it’s five AM, the sun’s gonna rise and burn you to a crisp if we don’t move it,” Butcher complains.

“Pete Wentz texted,” Bill says.

“Shit,” Tom gasps.

Jon’s similarly frozen to the spot. He knows Pete Wentz; _everybody_ does. He knows that Pete Wentz was one of the biggest Hunters in Chi-Town right up until Bill turned him.

Chicago has legends about the night Pete Wentz was supposedly taken out. The night he returned and took out an entire vampire brood from North Lincoln single-handedly sent the city into chaos.

Jon imagines that he and Tom had it easiest; every Other that he’d known at the time was a werewolf, who had been relatively unrelated to the whole ordeal. Vampires, meanwhile, made themselves very scarce for a while there. Jon hadn’t realized that Bill was capable of fear, but seeing him stock still staring at his phone screen might be the closest he’ll ever come to witnessing that.

In the present, Jon shoots Tom a concerned glance, and Tom looks back at him, and Jon knows everything he needs to. Tom is undeniably stubborn, but he isn't dumb enough to be foolhardy about _this_. It doesn't matter how little they were concerned about Wentz in Chicago; Tom understands that by association with William, they're at risk now. It's a small comfort to be reassured that Tom isn't a complete fucking idiot, but Jon counts the blessing anyway.

“We should split,” Mike says suddenly. “Lay low for a while. Sisky, you’re with us, but you three should hunker down far away from us.”

“What did he say?” Tom asks.

“Irrelevant,” Mike says.

“Very relevant, actually,” Tom snaps. He grabs at Bill’s sleeve and looks up to him. “Is he coming for you? For us? What did he say, Bill?”

“He says he has a job for me,” Bill says. He blinks, and slowly his eyes drift away from his phone screen. “Mike’s right. You three should go.”

“... What?” Butcher asks, his voice a little hoarse. "Adam?"

Sisky frowns but puts a hand on Butcher's shoulder and stares him down. "I love you, man. But I have to stick with them."

"We're really splitting up," Butcher says, disbelieving.

“Not forever. Promise. Just until I see what he wants,” Bill assures.

“You’re actually going?” Mike asks with a voice so scathing that Jon flinches just hearing it.

“I’m not scared of him,” Bill says. “He won’t kill me. I doubt he even could. I’m his god damn _sire_.”

“William,” Mike hisses.

“This isn’t a group decision. I’m going whether you approve or not. If _you’re_ scared of him, you take Sisky and hide,” Bill says.

“Fuck you,” Mike says. “You’re a fucking idiot if you go to meet him alone.”  
  
“You’re a fucking idiot if you think _anything else_ is gonna happen,” Bill says incredulously.

“You may be my sire, but I am fucking older than you,” Mike growls.

He raises his eyebrows. “You are not my only childe, _Mike_. You wanna leave Sisky unguarded just so you can play my bodyguard? Fucking face it, I don’t need that. That's not what he asked for. This has _nothing_ to do with you. This is between me and Wentz.”

Mike stares him down. It feels different from the fights that Bill and Mike have every day.

Bill’s eyes pull away from Mike, over the rest of them standing in the hotel room. “Stay away from Chicago. I’ll send you Common cash to find a place. I’ll come find you all when I’ve spoken with him. We’ll decide what to do after that.”

There’s a pause in the room. Mike’s still glaring at Bill, who’s ignoring him.

“Jon,” Tom mutters. “Let’s go find a new ride.”

“Yeah. Butch?” Jon asks.

“We should split up too,” Butcher says, but he looks like he’s sorry about it. “Just in case. Make it harder for ‘em to track us all down if this is a trap.”

“We’ll wait for you,” Tom tells Bill.

They leave. The car is bought under Jon’s name, but he makes Tom drive. Tom drives north, but not east. They don’t go home.

* * *

**20 December 2005**  
**Wilson, WY**

William takes his sweet time. It’s almost Christmas when Jon goes to answer the knock on the door only to see Bill's face through the diamond-shaped window of their rented house's door.

“Lakefront property? You couldn’t pick somewhere a little cheaper to stay?” Bill asks, as though he’s concerned with human money.

“Tom and I missed Chicago. Come in,” Jon says. He steps back to let Bill in, making sure Bill’s officially invited so he doesn’t have to fight the age-old curse of his species. “Tom! You're gonna wanna see this!”

Tom grunts in response, and Jon can hear shuffling, and then Tom finally steps out and halts in his path when he recognizes who’s come in. “Bill,” Tom whispers.

“Hi Tomrad,” William grins.

Tom starts forward and then halts himself, and then shakes his head and pulls Bill into a hug. “Dude, I thought you… I dunno. Good to see you.”  
  
William smiles over Tom’s shoulder, then pushes him at arm’s length and puts on his signature swagger. “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart.”

“I’ll get you a beer if you tell us a story,” Tom says.

“I’d rather something stronger,” Bill says. Then, his eyes slide over to Jon. “Or sweeter.”

Jon suppresses a shiver. “Free beer or bust,” he says gently.

Bill flashes a smile that doesn’t seem to be malicious, but it shows his fangs anyway.

“I’m not offering, Bill. Find someone else,” Jon says more firmly.

“Fine. Got it,” Bill shrugs. “Beer it is, since I’m assuming you don’t have any hard lemonade.”

Tom goes and gets three beers from the fridge and they sit down on the little dining table they have. They waste maybe twenty minutes of small talk, going back and forth about what it’s been like to live in a domestic little life. _They haven’t done much, even if you did miss Christmas_ , they tell him. _Nothing but sit around and live out a winter vacation in the forest, where Tom can shift on moons and run around without anyone to find him_. Bill coaxes the details of their past few months out before he even acknowledges that his own life has gone on too.

But William wouldn’t be here if nothing had happened.

“Sisky, Mike and I went back to Chicago,” William begins. “Mike was being a clingy bitch and I guess I don’t blame him. He’s right about underestimating your enemies. Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

Tom grins, but that might just be because Tom’s never liked Mike. Jon doesn't think Tom realizes that Bill meant it lovingly.

“I set up a meeting place with Wentz. Had to be private, of course. Didn’t want anyone interrupting, Common or Other. Truly alone. He met me just like he said he would. The Suitehearts – whatever they call themselves - they didn’t come with. Man of his word. This time, at least. So there I was, walking up to this professional-ass office building. He rented a fucking conference room, I guess. Or he killed whoever owned it, but I’m betting he’s too morally righteous to have done that. I walk in and he’s looking at the skyline like some movie villain.”

“Isn’t he?” Tom chuckles.

Bill ignores him. “He… had a contract for me. Before I continue, you should know I signed it. The Academy Clan is contracted. You can leave the clan if you disagree.”

Jon can tell that Tom wants to fight about this already, ask why the hell they’re doing contracts for Hunters, beg Bill to change his mind. But Tom’s been trying to impress Bill for years now. So he nods quietly and waits for the news to come. “Hit me.”

“He’s apparently read up on the Masqueraders and what we actually do,” Bill sighs, leaning back into his chair. “I’m not sure what Hunter propaganda he heard, but he seems to be taking a second look at it now. And he’s decided that he’s interested in playing both sides of the battle. He says he’s not gonna stop being a Hunter. Shit, I mean he still hates _my_ guts. But he says - and I quote - _‘there’s beauty in that Other world you’ve got going on_ ’ and that some of it’s worth protecting against the shitty Hunters.”

“So he just wants us to... hunt some Hunters?” Tom asks. “That’s what we always do.”

“No,” William says. He turns to look out the window with a confused expression, like he doesn’t even understand it now. “He found this bunch of kids. He wants us to train _them_ to be Masqueraders too.”

* * *

**14 January 2006**  
**Las Vegas, NV**

Jon meets them in January.

“I can’t believe they’re talking without us!” one screeches, jumping onto the back of the tallest boy, who stumbles a half step forward but holds him up easily. “It’s somewhat rude of them. I wanna meet them. Spence, can you feel them from here? It’s just like Ry says, they’re super, super powerful. They emanate a certain lethality. Look at that one! The tall one? He’s even older than me! I can tell.”

“Oh yeah?” says the one being climbed on. He looks up at the boy and gives a distracted smile. “You can tell?”

“Uh-huh! I’m magick-with-a-k like that. Ry– Ry, tell him!”

“You’re not magick,” says the one with a fringe cut. It’s the most monotone voice Jon’s ever heard, and it's on a face that looks like it could be a young clone of Bill. The term ‘edgy’ comes to mind when Jon notes the eyeliner, skinny jeans and crossed arms.

“I’m totally magick,” repeats the climbing one. “Hey, wait! That one’s a normal human.”

‘Spence’ and ‘Ry’ both turn their gazes and stare right at Jon. Jon almost jumps at the intensity of their gaze. It’s shocking only in that nothing else has changed about their posture; they still stand casually, waiting by the car while Pete fucking Wentz talks to Bill’s clan on the other side of the parking lot. Which, for the record, is still insane. Wentz isn’t exactly known for being Masquerader-friendly, which makes it absurd that he’s claiming to be the mentor of these kids, and even more absurd that he’s letting another crew oversee their first contract tour. Jon thinks he’d give a hell of a lot to listen to Wentz explain it. Jon’s only apart from them now because Tom told him pretty definitively that he ought to watch their cars.

“He’s not like Brent, I don’t think,” the talkative one says. He tilts his head to the side, pauses, then gasps. “Lookit that. He can’t see my tail and I’m waving it like crazy and even though he’s staring at me, he’s not looking at it. I’m pretty sure he can’t see it. He’s not— What’s it called again?”

“Sighted,” the fourth one says. He walks up to be shoulder-to-shoulder with ‘Ry’.

“Hey Non-Sighted! Are you going to stare at us until they come back?” asks the chatty one, raising his voice and speaking directly to Jon.

“Probably,” Jon says, amused. “I’ve been told to watch the car, but you’re the only ones in the parking lot.”

“Spence, Spence can we go talk to him?” Chatty asks, leaning his face down so close he might as well be kissing the guy’s cheek. “Please?”

‘Spence’ sighs, hoists Chatty up, and begins walking towards Jon. The other two follow suit.

“Hi,” Chatty says. “Why are you here? I thought regular humans weren’t supposed to be here. We’re talking about private stuff.”

“I’m friends with the clan. I know about the Others,” Jon says. “I just can’t tell who’s what at a glance.”

“Must suck,” says the one that’s not ‘Spence’, ‘Ry’, or Chatty.

“A little,” Jon chuckles. “But I’m not pressed about it. I figure it out when I need to know.”

“How?” Chatty asks, all wide-eyes and curiosity.

“Well. I’m not usually fighting Others, but when it happens, you find out pretty quick. A vampire doesn’t have the element of surprise after they try to bite you.”

Chatty giggles. “But you’re so fragile! If it bites you before you know, you die.”

“Good thing I’m careful,” Jon says.

“Didn’t catch your name,” ‘Ry’ interrupts coldly.

“I could say the same. I’m Jon Walker. Human,” Jon says. “I’m not part of the Academy Clan, but I’m close enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not in the clan myself, but Tom is,” Jon says. They’ve gotten sidetracked from introductions, but he’s sure he’ll learn their real names eventually.

“Is Tom your master?” Chatty asks. “Is Tom a _vampire_? Are you a thrall? Spencer’s mom told me all about thralls.”

“Tom’s my friend,” Jon corrects with a smile. “He’s a werewolf, actually.”

“So is Spencer!” Chatty says. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” ‘Ry’ repeats with much less enthusiasm. “Cool.”

“Forgive him, he’s just pissed he’s missing his beauty sleep,” ‘Spencer’ says. ‘Ry’ does not look happy about this jab, but ‘Spence(r)’ keeps talking. “Maybe you could tell us something about William Beckett.”

“What do you want to know?” Jon asks.

“Anything, like, at all,” Chatty says. “Pete calls him an explicit swear word, but he also says he’s gonna teach us how to do good in the world. So which is true?”

“Both. Pete has a complicated relationship with Bill. I think all you need to know for sure is that you can trust either of them to mentor you.”

“We’re also concerned about the moral character of this clan,” ‘Ry’ says. “Can you speak to that?”

“Well, there’s a tougher question,” Jon admits. “Never trust a vampire to be morally pure. Personally, I wouldn’t trust an ex-Hunter either, but here you are with Pete.”

The four of them go quiet, glancing at each other nervously.

“Relax. If you trust Pete, then you can trust his decision to make William your stand-in mentor,” Jon says.

“Everything will sort itself out,” ‘Spence’ says. Jon isn’t completely sure who he’s talking to.

“Sorry, I think we skipped the part where I got to learn your names,” Jon says.

“Sorry ‘bout that. These assholes have me acting Other. Hello, fellow human, I’m Brent,” says the human.

“Ryan Ross,” says ‘Ry’. “Witch.”

“Spencer Smith, werewolf,” Spencer says.

“I’m Brendon,” Chatty introduces. “I’m a creation of God.”

Jon quirks his eyebrows, smiling.

“He’s a creation of an _architect_ ,” Ryan huffs.  
  
Brendon rolls his eyes. Then he leans in over Spencer’s shoulder and whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a heathen and a pagan.”

“You have _got_ to stop saying that,” Ryan mumbles.

“I love you, dearest RyRo, but you worship false gods,” Brendon says in such a loving voice that Jon smiles in amusement at the mismatch of tone and sentiment.

“Brendon is a fae,” Spencer interjects. “A rare fae. He’s a gargoyle.”

That’s almost comically rare, but Jon supposes he's heard weirder things. He tilts his head in curiosity and smiles. “Interesting.”

“Walker,” Beckett’s voice calls smoothly. “Thanks for keeping the kids entertained.”

Jon looks over and sees that everyone is approaching. Even Wentz.

William claps his hands and rubs them together, slowing his approach. “I think we better fill the children in on how contracts tours work—“

“I know how contracts work,” Ryan interrupts. “Pete told us. Others offer contracts up, you take them on in bulk ahead of time, you go on a road trip and complete them in whichever city they were filed from.”

“Ryan,” Pete says disapprovingly.

“Well, fuck then, what are we even here for?” Beckett exclaims jokingly. “Why don’t you just go out on your own and see how many contracts you’re offered, then?”

Ryan huffs. “I know rookies don’t get offers. I know we need mentors and references. We’re young, not stupid.”

“Nearly everyone’s young compared to me,” Bill says. His eyes slide over to Sisky. “Speaking of young. Sisky’s hungry. Jon, be a dear?”

“Bill…” Jon protests gently.

“You or someone else,” Bill shrugs. “I don’t care either way. He asked for you, though.”

Jon doesn’t particularly want to. The conversation isn’t nearly over, and Jon would like to hear the details of how much authority Bill gets over these kids when they’re clearly Pete’s property. The thing is, though, Jon likes Sisky. More than that, he likes that Sisky won’t kill anyone tonight if he goes. “Okay,” he says finally.

Sisky makes apologetic eye contact. It’s nice to remember that Sisky doesn’t want to force Jon into it. Even if that’s exactly what’s happening.

Jon walks with Sisky to the car so that if he passes out from blood loss, he’ll already be in a vehicle.

That’s the entirety of their first meeting.

* * *

**4 February 2006**  
**Boston, MA**

They’re back on the road before long.

The tour is planned out by Bill in conjunction with Pete. For the first time in Jon’s time as a Masquerader, he witnesses a contract tour planned with meticulous precision. All targets' intel is known from the start, and they’re on a strict travel schedule. It’s mostly rural complaints of snooping Hunters and a couple of stalkers in big cities at first. Nothing that will take longer than one night. Nothing that will get any rookies killed either - not with Bill’s clan supervising (that part’s in the overall contract too). Just enough to see what they’re made of.

For general safety, Bill declares that the first contract of the tour will be an all-hands-on-deck raid, despite the contract being a relatively easy one.

The dusk before they go, Mike briefs everyone on the contract in a motel in Utah. Six Hunters living on a hay farm. The plan is for Sisky and Mike to get a blessing from Butcher so they can break into the house uninvited. Then, they'll take out as many as they can in the thirty seconds before Butcher make a distraction to draw the remaining ones outside. From there, the whole clan will sweep the rest outdoors, so that they don't have to bother with furniture and walls getting in the way. Instructions are given for the new kids to step in only in the event that someone from Bill’s clan goes down; otherwise, they’re to treat it like a spectator sport. Actually, he tells them that Jon is their chaperone. Same difference, though.

Ryan and Brent aren’t too keen on the idea of having an extra babysitter, but when Mike asks if they understand, all four of them nod obediently.

They arrive on the driveway up to the farm and everyone steps out of the vehicles into the night. They’ve parked about fifty feet from the farmhouse just to maintain a quiet approach.

“Don’t let them get away once they start running,” Mike says shortly.

“I’d never,” William assures.

Mike hums and nods once before leading Sisky and Butcher up towards the house.

“So, lesson one, huh,” William muses. “We better make this count. First impressions are everything, don’t you think, Tomrad?”

Tom chuckles and nods. Jon rolls his eyes, knowing that Tom’s going to push himself harder than necessary. The moon’s barely past waxing crescent; shifting tonight would be hard enough without trying to be a show-off. Dealing with that illogical thinking is perhaps the worst part of being Tom’s best friend.

Jon checks over his shoulder just to be sure that his official responsibility is still under wraps, and sure enough the new kids are all hovering behind him just like they promised.

Bill turns to them. “Now kids, listen up. There’s no shame in a quiet takeout. Killing Hunters in their sleep is merciful in many ways. But in practicality, that won’t always be an option. And when it isn’t…”

William snaps his fingers. Obediently, Tom rolls his shoulders and lets out a snarl. In the space between one second and the next, he’s shifted completely into his truest wolf form, a massive beast that puts the cars they came in to shame. He must be eight feet tall at the shoulder with teeth as big as daggers and eyes of glowing amber. He’s fucking _terrifying_.

“Don’t be afraid to make a mess,” Bill grins.

An explosion goes off near the farmhouse.

William jumps up, effortlessly swinging his leg over Tom’s back and holding on tight. Tom takes off at a sprint.

“What the fuck,” Brent whispers.

“Spencer, can _you_ shift that fast?” Brendon asks.

“No,” Spencer says quietly. “Takes me a few seconds.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Tom being faster. It’s not without consequence,” Jon says. “Whenever he shifts that quickly, he always gets the worst aches after he shifts back. It usually takes him a while to even shift back in the first place.”

A shout of surprise comes from the farmhouse, then two of pain. A couple gunshots.

"That's not to say it isn't impressive," Jon amends.

“Should we get closer?” Ryan asks. Jon glances at him. “In case they need us to step in.”

Jon has a strong suspicion that Ryan simply wants to join the fight, but the view from here isn’t spectacular anyway. He nods and begins walking, and hears the four of them following behind him.

The fight doesn’t last long, nor do they need the new kids to step in. They watch from the end of the driveway as the Hunters are taken out rather viciously. It’s kind of just a bloody mess of things with throats torn out and gigantic bite marks and one Hunter who seems to have a bullet wound despite none of Bill’s clan having any firearms. That much damage is kind of impressive, considering they were all in a car five minutes ago. The last survivor hides just inside the farmhouse, taking blind shots at them around the door frame with his handgun.

“Do you think it’s unfair?” Brendon asks curiously. He doesn’t sound particularly upset. “This looks to be a massacre.”

“No. They’re fighting back and losing,” Spencer says. “They chose a life of violence when they became Hunters. They made killing us their profession.”

“This is justice,” Ryan nods.

After another couple seconds of blind shooting, the survivor stops.

“He must’ve run out of bullets,” Spencer guesses.

Sure enough, the survivor sprints out the door and towards the farmland only to be tripped by Bill. The man scrambles back by his elbows and spits at William’s feet. “You’re all fucking monsters!”

“Stones and glass houses,” William chides.

The Hunter manages to get up and make a run for the hay fields.

“Is anyone still hungry?” Bill asks, glancing at Sisky and Mike. They both shake their heads. “Me neither. Kind of a waste. You know, I was thinking—”

“ _Bill_. Don’t let him get away,” Mike says.

Bill sighs and watches the Hunter who’s a good forty feet into the waist-high hay. “Tommy boy? Sicc ‘em.”

Tom takes off so fast that his claws pulverize the packed earth he’d been standing on. Jon takes a moment to pity the poor soul that has to try to outrun a werewolf.

Jon nods to the kids and begins walking towards the clan. “Come on. It’s over now.”

“I think their kitchen is stocked,” Mike says conversationally.

“Come on kids, we’ll crash in their house,” Bill exclaims. “Steal their beds. Steal their _beer_.”

“I don’t drink,” Ryan says.

“Okay, then you’ll steal something else. They’re American. They’ve gotta have some pop,” William says.

“Pop?” Spencer mutters.

“Like soda pop,” Brent says.

“Just say _soda_ ,” Spencer grumbles.

Jon stays on the porch while everyone goes in to raid the house. After a couple minutes, Tom pads in from the field and curls up on a non-bloody patch of ground.

“Hey,” Jon mutters, crouching down next to his head and pressing his hand between Tom’s ears. “I think you went a little overkill tonight. This big, really? And shifting that fast was definitely just to show off.”

‘ _Fuck off_ ,’ Tom growls. But he sighs shortly after. ‘ _I wanted to_.’

“You’re an adult. I’m not your keeper,” Jon says innocently. “Did you have fun with your chew toys?”

‘ _T_ _hey didn’t taste very good,_ ’ Tom admits.

“Maybe this’ll be what convinces you to start using mouthwash,” Jon chuckles.

Tom snorts at that.

“Do you want to be alone?” Jon asks. He hadn’t figured that would be the case, or he would be inside with the clan raiding the fridge. But he still wants to hear it for himself.

 _‘…Stay_?’

“Mhm,” Jon agrees wordlessly.

It takes Tom ten minutes to fully shift back, twenty for the shakes to stop, and another ten until he says the aches are gone. Jon sits with him the whole time, like he always does when Tom asks. When he’s ready, Jon helps him stand up and they step inside to let Bill know they’re ready. Everyone starts heading back to the cars, only pausing for one more thing.

They have Butcher set the whole farm on fire. It gets rid of the supernatural parts of the evidence. Homicide's a lot more plausible that way.

* * *

**5 February 2006**  
**Springfield, MA**

With this many people on a tour, Jon isn’t usually invited to tag along when they actually go complete their contracts. Especially not when it’s this easy. Luckily, Jon has other work to do to keep himself occupied. He still has to manage driving shifts and hotel rooms and contract intel, because Mike and Bill don’t want to, and nobody trusts the new kids with trip management.

Also, Brendon has seemingly imprinted on him.

“Why were you told of Tom’s lycanthropy? I thought Others are forbidden from pulling humans through The Veil,” Brendon asks as Jon scans contract copies in a Iowa hotel lobby and Brendon watches.

“That was a long time ago. Tom told me because…” Jon pauses to open the scanner and flip the page. “Because he’s my best friend, and I figured out he was hiding something because I knew him so well. Once I asked him about it, he decided it would be better to tell me everything rather than cut me out of his life. He cares about me too much to actually do that.”

“Why do you follow him?”

“Because he’s my best friend? I care about him too much to let him run off on his own. So I followed him in Chicago, and I followed him when he joined the Academy Clan.”

Brendon nods thoughtfully. “… Ryan says you’re a bloodbag.”

Jon fumbles the pile of papers he’d been flipping through, thankfully only dropping one on the floor. He picks it up and puts the whole thing on top of the scanner. “Brendon, I do a lot more for the clan than sit here and let people drink my blood.”

“ _I_ know that,” Brendon assures quickly. “No soul here appreciates you, but you bring them coffee and get them beds and hide their corpses.”

_That’s never going to sound right._

“But they _do_ drink your blood, too,” Brendon adds softly.

“If it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else,” Jon says. He’s drilled this into his own mind so much that it’s easy to repeat aloud. “I’d rather not hide more bodies than I already do, let alone worry about innocent ones. They don’t want to kill anyone they don’t have to either. And besides, it won’t kill me in the first place. We’re friends.”

“They don’t drink Tom’s blood,” Brendon pouts.

Jon could talk about how William does, on the days when Tom really wants to be William’s favorite. Or how when Sisky’s starving and they’re on a long undercover contract, Butcher offers his own veins. He doesn’t tell Brendon any of that. Jon doesn’t like drama. He doesn’t like causing fights or being caught in them.

Brendon breathes heavily and moves on. “Other than that, I think they’re amazing. They swear a lot, but so do a lot of people I like.”

“Like Ryan,” Jon says. He’s gathered through observation that Ryan is the absolute center of Brendon’s universe. It’s everywhere in their interactions; in how Brendon will follow Ryan’s lead, support Ryan’s plans, follow him around until Ryan snaps at him. Jon’s pretty sure it’s hero-worship, but he has no room to criticize anyone on that when Tom acts the same way around Bill.

“Yes. Ryan has a tongue as sharp as silver, yet he uses crude words and cares not for censoring himself,” Brendon nods. “Spencer and Brent too. I don’t think that matters as much as I thought it did.”

“So it doesn’t really bother you that the clan swears, then?” Jon asks. He goes back to scanning papers.

"Not at all."

"That's good," Jon says. He shuffles over to the computer connected to the scanner, and starts the digital process to print out copies that he can keep. "The Academy clan has a lot of experience. I'm glad you like them."

“Yes! They’re fantastically skilled combatants. It’s all, like, _pshew, bite, thud_ , and that’s all of the Hunters dropping dead ‘cause Mike’s a _ninja_.”

It’s true, Bill’s clan is powerful, but this contract tour has also been entirely made up of easy targets thus far. The kids have been sent on missions with rotating babysitters for the past few contracts, which Jon imagines means they’ve seen everyone's skill sets highlighted. Except William, who refuses to take the kids out unless it’s a group outing. He just goes on his own contracts with the rest of the clan. Bill doesn’t have to try very hard to impress, though; anyone who’s ever seen him in action knows exactly how dangerous he is. Hell, most people with any radar for power know just from being in his proximity.

“Do you like my sound effects? I’ve been working on modern slang,” Brendon asks.

“I _do_ like your sound effects,” Jon agrees. He slows to a pause in his work once again, realizing that he’s fallen back into speaking to Brendon like a child because nothing’s indicated he was any different. But he distinctly remembers Brendon mentioning with surprise that Bill was older than himself, let alone his comments about having to learn modern slang. “Brendon, if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“I was created by Heavenly Father in the year 1918, but I spent much of my time in the 1900s merged with the temple I was assigned to. Oh, I know this is confusing, so let me explain. I was sculpted when I was made, _of course_ , but during the 30s I was merged with my temple to feed into the faith in times of despair. Later, I was moved to a suburban temple in the 50s and didn’t merge again until 1962. Ryan and Spencer found me in 2004 when my temple was demolished.”

Jon nods, pretending he understands the technicalities of fae and gargoyles and literally becoming one with a building. “So you’ve been catching up on pop culture.”

“Pretty much,” Brendon says. Even now, phrases like that sound oddly disjointed. Like he’s describing ‘much’ as something that’s pretty. Like he doesn’t understand what the phrase means.

Biblical phrasing is likely his natural tendency, Jon figures, but being around millennials is sure to change an impressionable gargoyle. Jon supposes that he’s learning common English the same way children do when they hear it; repeating relevant, simple words. Slang that abuses grammar is sure to be repeated too, but of course, it would be spoken hesitantly if Brendon wasn’t sure he was using it right.

A number of things about Brendon suddenly make sense.

“I think you’re doing great,” Jon says.

Brendon absolutely beams at him.

* * *

**9 February 2006**  
**(between NJ and CT)**

Jon’s only excuse is that Brendon’s curiosity is contagious.

The more Brendon asks about his life, learning about how long he’s been with the Academy (couple years) and how long he’s lived in Chicago (forever) and what his religious beliefs are (unsure pending pagan investigation), he finds himself with questions of his own. Brendon is more than happy to share about himself and his opinions, but every time Jon inquires about his friends, Brendon clams up. He’ll share the bare basics about their personalities and history, but he refuses to disclose much else. Jon figures he’s afraid of saying more than he means to, which is understandable and actually more self-aware than he’d given Brendon credit for.

It doesn’t satisfy Jon’s curiosity one bit, though.

“So what can they do?” Jon asks Tom one early morning as Tom drives across a New England highway.

“Like, in a fight?” Tom asks. When Jon nods, he sighs and shrugs. “I dunno. That Brendon kid doesn’t look it, but he’s literally made of solid stone. He can bash a skull in with a punch. Not sure if he feels pain or not, honestly. Oh and he’s got this tail that you probably can’t see. Imagine a cartoon devil tail, but gray, not red.”

“Okay?” Jon nods, prompting more explanation. “And the others?”

“The human’s not a bad shot with a handgun, but that and basic hand-to-hand is about all he can do in a scrap. Admittedly, he’s fucking fast at pointing out when Hunters have a werewolf or whatever in their ranks. Faster than me. The witch - Ross - he’s like Butcher if Butcher could specialize in just about everything. I have no idea how many styles of magic he can do, but I guess all I need to know is that he’s a walking hurricane. And that he can’t do shit for healing or future prediction.”

Jon thinks it over, but it makes sense. Ryan holds himself with a kind of superior posture. Jon wasn’t sure why, but it makes sense for the kid to act high and mighty if he has the skill to back it up. He wonders if Ryan has the experience to apply it in bigger fights.

“Spencer’s alright. He can’t shift as fast as me—“

“Nobody can,” Jon mumbles.

“But it takes him an average five seconds each way to shift and shift back. He’s not the fastest wolf in the pack either, but he’s a powerhouse. He holds his own just fine.”

Jon hums. “Cool.”

* * *

**14 February 2006**  
**Norfolk, VA**

Drinking free beer is one of the little perks that Jon finds amazing about this job. “Bill, I’ll never understand how you know everyone worth knowing.”

“What, _this?”_ Bill asks indicating the party around them.

“Yeah, this. One would think that the chances of you knowing the local werewolves of Virginia would be, like, astronomical. But here they are giving us free drinks. You have more connections than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“You say that,” Bill says from across the table. “But Pete’s a pretty fucking big contender, and you’ve met him too. Chicago runs tight, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” Jon agrees. “But Suitehearts are vampire-hunters. I ran with werewolves.”

Bill waves him off. “Even more reason. Pete knew _everybody_. Whether they were friendly or not is _hardly_ the point. And now he’s on our side now, so it doesn’t even matter!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jon mutters into his beer before he takes a sip.

“I get to be sure. I’m, like, his vampire daddy.”

“ _Never_ say that again.”

Bill snorts.

Jon shakes his head. “I just don’t think Pete has your kind of connections. He can call in favors because he has power and respect. You’re different from that. Your connections owe you favors because you know everybody.”

“Living for centuries’ll do that to a man,” Bill sighs.

After another sip, Jon looks up at the small dinner party.

The house belongs to a Virginian werewolf— the same one that contracted the kids. It’s her pack that’s sitting around discussing human politics and waiting around for the new kids to clear out their hunting grounds. Right now, Sisky’s out on that contract while Bill, Butcher and Jon keep the contractor company. Mike and Tom are yelling at each other in a hotel room.

So yeah. He's enjoying his free beer.

“Is it at least a _little bit_ because I’m scary?” Bill pleads.

“Terrifying,” Jon says easily. It’s true, though. Easy enough to forget when he doesn’t flaunt his powers, but no vampire gets as powerful as Beckett without a body count in the thousands.

“Back to Masqueraders, though. You don’t think Pete’s gonna join? Oh, but he’s perfect for it now that he’s Other,” Bill whines. “And that pretty-boy of his - he’s got some fae in him. I’d bet you anything it’s siren blood. Could be half-decent with a couple awakening rituals. After that, I don’t see why you wouldn’t just turn the other two and officially switch sides. I mean, it’s not like they didn’t stop dead in their tracks once I turned Pete. Not to mention that he’s a mentor to a Masquerader court now. If that doesn’t make him an honorary Masquerader…”

“It could just mean he wants spies on the inside,” Jon says.

“I thought you liked these kids,” Bill accuses.

“I do. But I don’t trust Hunters,” Jon shrugs. “At the end of the day, Hunter ideology comes from a bunch of humans who think they're protecting their own. The Suitehearts may be rethinking it, but they’re not gonna flip sides that easy. The Masqueraders were founded to kill them.”

“And Hunters were founded to kill Others,” Bill retorts. “I have faith. They’ll figure out soon that _one_ of those groups is using self-defense.”

“You give them too much credit,” Jon grumbles.

Bill laughs again.

* * *

**15 February 2006**  
**(between SC and GA)**

Tom usually drives Beckett’s car between cities, but under certain circumstances, they need to shuffle around. Like when Butcher, who usually drives the kid car, gets in a tiff with Ryan over magic and refuses to spend hours in his proximity. So, Tom’s driving the kids.

“You’ve gotta stop calling us that. We’re not kids,” Ryan grunts.

“Uh huh,” Jon nods. “How old are you?”

“Eighty-eight,” Brendon says.

“Yeah, you don’t count,” Jon chuckles. “How old are the rest of you?

“Twenty,” Ryan says before waving at the backseat. “They’re both nineteen.”

Jon doesn’t turn to look since he’s going seventy miles per hour on this road, but he’s fairly sure he knows who they’re talking about. “Well, it’d be weird to call you the ‘new _adults_ on the block’, so. You got a better idea for what to call you?”

“Well we _are_ a court,” Ryan says.

Jon glances at the rear view, catching Spencer’s eye. “A court?”

“I’m a fae,” Brendon says. “We can be a court.”

“Yeah, sure you _can_. It’s just traditional to call yourself a crew if there’s not a majority in the group,” Jon says.

“We’re not the type to conform,” Ryan says firmly. “You can call us the Panic Court.”

“Okay then,” Jon chuckles, conceding defeat. “Does Panic usually grill Butcher this much?”  
  
“We usually ignore Butcher,” Brendon says. “And sleep. But you’re exciting.”

“What makes me so exciting?” Jon asks curiously.

“You just go around fixing all of Beckett’s problems,” Brendon says. “His clan does their work, but you set everything in place.”

“How’d you learn to manage all of it?” Spencer asks.

“Before the Academy, I ran with Tom’s pack. 504. We were local Masqueraders, the type that respond to community SOS calls. Imagine a bunch of reckless werewolves running around the Windy City. Someone had to be responsible,” Jon says. “I was the only one in the pack that understood that at all.”

“You were _in_ the pack?” Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows.

Jon laughs. “You have a human in your court. Is my story so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Brent says. “At least I’m Sighted. At least I can _see_ Others.”

“Eh. I could keep up with ‘em. Might not be able to take a werewolf in an arm-wrestling contest, but it doesn’t take any magic to aim a gun.”

“ _You_?” Ryan asks, inflecting it like he’d expected Jon was just here to check in to hotels. “You’ve shot people?”

“Well I can’t shoot lightning from my fingertips,” Jon shrugs. “So I have to shoot something else. Hunters don’t specialize in negotiation.”

“I want Jon to come on a contract with us,” Brendon announces.

“Are you allowed to?” Ryan asks flatly.

Jon pauses. It’s a jab, definitely. He’d have to be stupid to overlook that. But it’s true, he can’t just decide to tag along on a contract and do it. He has to be part of the plan, and for that he’d have to ask William and Tom. He doesn’t want to ask permission. “Maybe. Depends on the contract, I think. You’d have to ask about that.”

The others stop talking. Jon thinks he might’ve said that a bit harsher than he had to.

* * *

**18 February 2006  
Fort Lauderdale, FL**

Jon doesn’t mean to snoop around.

Really, he doesn’t. He’d gotten his questions out of the way in the first couple of weeks, when he was first forming a friendship with Brendon and acquaintanceship with the rest. Since then, he’s picked up on all he needs to know from observation. Like that Spencer isn’t nearly as fast as Tom, but his strength is much more consistent in whichever form he takes. Or that Ryan writes poetry in the book he _claims_ is a grimoire for written spells. That sort of thing that you pick up when you live in hotels and vans for weeks on end with someone.

So he isn’t exactly looking to spy on them when he keys himself into the Panic hotel room and catches Ryan shoving Brendon away from a kiss.

Brendon, who had been on Ryan’s lap, lands on the ground with a thud while Ryan stands, eyes locked on Jon.

“Woah,” Jon says. “Should’a knocked, I g—“

Ryan’s marches over and bodily drags Jon into the bathroom, cutting him off and slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re never going to mention what you just saw to anyone, or you’ll live out the _rest of your life—“_

“Hey, woah. I won’t tell anyone,” Jon says gently.

“Then you wouldn’t mind me casting a spell to make sure you’re telling the truth?” Ryan challenges.

“Sure,” Jon says, because he knows those types of spells only work with cooperation on both ends. “Cast it. I’m willing.”

Ryan’s hands wave, fingers dancing into and out of positions in a jerky, violent manner before he reaches out one hand and hooks it around the back of Jon’s neck. His whole hand tingles a little, like it’s vibrating. Or humming. “Are you going to tell anyone about what you saw?”

“No,” Jon says. “That’s your business.”

“Are you going to make our lives harder? _Sabotage_ us?”

“What? No. Ryan, I’m not homophobic. Date whoever you want.”

“I’m not dating Brendon,” Ryan says firmly. But just as he says that, his hand shakes unnaturally against Jon’s neck, and Ryan flushes red.

Jon takes a deep breath. “I have no intentions to treat you differently. Either of you.”

Ryan stares him directly in the eye, tilting his head slightly.

"Am I lying?" Jon asks gently.

"No," Ryan says . Slowly, carefully, he pulls his hand away from Jon. “Okay.”

After a moment, Jon nods and turns back to the door and re-enters the hotel room. The first thing he sees is Brendon, curled up on the ground where Ryan left him.

“Brendon, you okay?” Jon asks, taking the few quick steps he needs to cross the room and kneel beside Brendon.

“I’m sorry. Don’t hate us, Jon, please. We— we’ll stop! We won’t do it again,” Brendon promises.

“Like hell we won’t,” Ryan grumbles from behind Jon.

“No need, Brendon. It’s alright. I don’t mind,” Jon assures. “You can kiss boys. You can kiss Ryan, or whoever you want. It’s okay.”

Brendon blinks back up at him. “So I can still be your friend?”

“Of course, B,” Jon says, opening his arms. Brendon sits up and gives him a big hug, while Jon glances over his shoulder at Ryan. “I wouldn’t hurt you guys. I’m happy if you’re happy.”

Ryan’s face relaxes a little bit.

Little victories.

* * *

**21 February 2006**  
**New Orleans, LA**

Over the next few cities, there’s not much change to the schedule. Contracts stay simple; always rookie Hunters and never Other. Which is good, mostly because it keeps things simple. Taking down Others is always a risk because most people in the Other community have at least a few connections, and killing the wrong person might ruin your future business opportunities with their allies. Which is no good for a court who’s just trying to get started. That includes Hunters who are Others themselves; going after witch-hunting werewolves or witch-hunting fae or any other combination of traitors is too complicated to mess with. So, vanilla Hunters it is. (They’re easier to kill anyway.)

Jon bears witness to a couple of injuries here and there, which are bound to happen at some point. Spencer gets cut on the leg. Tom gets a black eye. Someone successfully shoots Brendon directly in the chest with a shotgun. Luckily, Brendon is made of solid stone, so he has a few chips and cracks in his skin to show for it. He says that he can get it healed later if he finds a witch who specializes in blacksmithing -- something about melting gemstones to fill in the cracks.

Butcher patches them up with healing magic and sends them along. They seem fine, like they can bounce back from whatever they face. So, Jon doesn’t waste time worrying about Panic’s ability to manage themselves. Until Ryan comes to him early one night with a frown.

Ryan knocks on his open door and steps in, frowning and glancing over the room before his gaze lands on Jon. “We can’t find Brent.”

“You’re supposed to get going with Mike to your contract,” Jon says.

“Yeah, we know. We can’t go until we find Brent,” Ryan says.

“So you said.”

“Fucking hell, this isn’t a joke!” Ryan snaps.

“Okay,” Jon says calmly. “It’ll be okay. He can’t have gone far. We’ll find him before it becomes a problem.”

“It already is a problem,” Ryan says sharply. “He’s fucking missing.”

“Do you think he got kidnapped?” Jon asks.

“No,” Ryan huffs. “I think he went to take a break and fucked off while he was at it. I don’t care what he’s doing. I just need him to be back here, and soon.”

Jon sends Ryan back to his court because Ryan is easily angered even when he isn’t stressed out by missing people. He figures his search will go faster alone anyway.

Jon’s hunch is right, fortunately. He checks the hotel’s amenities and sweeps the ones that aren’t closed first. It’s not a long list; hotels don’t have many areas open at 11 PM. Jon finds Brent sitting in the pool’s locker room talking to his flip phone. Brent looks up when Jon steps in.

Jon taps his wrist.

Brent obediently glances down at his watch and jumps when he sees the time.

Jon doesn’t wait around to eavesdrop on the conversation once Brent starts rattling off apologies about losing track of time. He just waits for Brent outside.

“Hey,” Brent says apologetically to Jon once he exits the locker room a minute or so later. “Totally lost track of time. Sorry.”

“It’s cool, everyone was just wondering where you went,” Jon shrugs. “Try to keep an eye on the clock.”

“Won’t happen again.”

* * *

**23 February 2006**  
**Fort Worth, TX**

It just so happens that Brent’s promise that it wouldn’t happen again was what people in the business call ‘a big fucking lie’.

Brent wanders off with increasing frequency as the contracts draw on. Jon prides himself on paying attention to these sorts of things, but it takes him a few weeks to truly catch on. What throws him off is that every time Brent wanders off, he seems so honestly apologetic about making everybody wait.

He can’t ignore it when Brent drives off with the Panic Court’s van.

“He had the keys. It has to be him. He could be anywhere,” Brendon frets. “Nobody’s seen him or the car for hours. He could be anywhere at all.”

“Shut up,” Ryan growls.

“Where would he go?” Brendon asks.

“Shut the fuck _up_ , Bren.”

Spencer’s on the phone. It rings out for the fifth time. He tosses it onto the hotel bed, but unless something new happens, he’ll be dialing Brent’s number again in five minutes.

Jon sighs, wondering how to fix this mess. He’s been ordered to do so by William himself, who took one look at the court’s disorderly state and walked out the door. Still, Jon can’t do much about Brent’s absence.

“What happens if Brent doesn’t come back?” Brendon asks, hugging his knees. “We can’t go on a contract without him. Right?”

“If we have no other choice, we’ll have to,” Ryan says.

“Yeah, except that’s a breach of contract,” Spencer sighs. “Which means the contractor could fuck us up for not fulfilling it right.”

“What do they care?” Ryan asks. “If we do the contract, it shouldn’t fucking matter who it was.”

“I think it has something to do with the payment,” Spencer says, but he doesn’t sound confident. “Uh. Jon?”

“Yeah, that’s part of it, but that part is to protect you more than the contractor. It’s more about liability. If a contractor wanted a team to take out some Hunters and the crew sends less than they agreed to, the contractor doesn’t want to be responsible for if you get your ass kicked. Or killed.”

“We can’t breach a contract,” Spencer says. “Our reputation… we can’t break contracts on our first contract tour. Nobody would ever sign us again.”

“So…” Brendon bites his lip. Then he lights up. “Wait, we need to think like a court here! We should find a loophole. What does this contract say, exactly? Let’s read the exact phrasing.”

Spencer reaches for his backpack and pulls out a Xeroxed copy of the contract. “It says… okay, here: _‘Panic Court comprised of a team of four and under the guidance of at least one mentor approved by Academy or Pete Wentz.’_ ”

“What about Jon?” Ryan asks.

“Ryan,” Spencer mutters disapprovingly. But he’s glancing at Jon from the corner of his eye. Jon’s not sure what that means.

“It says four,” Ryan says. “If Butcher’s still the mentor, Jon doesn’t have to count as Academy. For tonight, he could be the fourth.”

“But Brent signed this contract. And Jon _didn’t_ ,” Spencer says.

“Can they really say we breached our contract as long as we have an equal replacement?” Ryan says. “They’re both human.”

“Oh. Oh! Jon’s a _human,”_ Brendon gasps with realization. “And he’s not even officially from the Academy. He’s a freelance agent. He could just fill in! Temporarily.”

There’s a pause where all three of them turn to Jon.

“Would you?” Spencer asks.

Jon swallows. “If you can get Bill and Tom to agree.”

“I’ll go ask,” Ryan says quickly, already on his feet and walking out of the room.

Jon wonders what he just got himself into. He muses, belatedly, that at least he found a solution to the problem.

A year in the future, he won’t remember much about this contract, or the car shootout they have, or which shots hit or missed. What he’ll remember is the way Ryan fit perfectly by his side and helped him lay down covering fire. He’ll remember watching as Spencer and Brendon slammed their way into the middle of the fight. He’ll remember not worrying about accidentally hitting either of them because at a glance, he knew what they would do next. He could just _feel_ how they moved together in a sort of synchronization that isn’t possible without seamless connection.

Jon will remember thinking that exact thought, and in turn being surprised that he was a part of it.

* * *

By the time they find their way back to the hotel, it’s that period that’s technically not the day before, but that no reasonable person would call ‘morning’ yet. In that liminal space, they walk back and find Brent sitting in the hallway by Panic’s room.

The realization of ‘ _Brent is back_ ’ makes Jon feel sicker than it should.

None of Panic says a word as they stare at their lost member, who pushes himself up to stand with the rest of them. Jon feels the seamless ease he felt with them evaporate into awkwardness. The loss hits him harder than he ever thought it would. He looks to Butcher for direction, trying to hide how uncertain this situation is making him.

“We need to sleep,” Butcher announces abruptly. “We’re supposed to be a driver shift tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, not taking his eyes off Brent. He’s the only one responding, but he is speaking for both Brendon and Ryan. Jon still knows that much. “See you at checkout.”

They leave. Panic is whole again, and Jon goes back to his awkward existence of not belonging.

* * *

**24 February 2006**

The next morning, Jon makes his rounds to the hotel rooms to drop off bagels and coffee, Ryan answers the door for Panic’s whole room. He takes the breakfast goods, puts them on a counter inside, but slips outside instead of just closing the door.

“Come on a walk,” Ryan says.

“Okay,” is all Jon can say.

They walk, take the stairs down, and end up walking around the first floor of the hotel for lack of places to go.

After a while of complete silence, Jon breaks it. “Is there—“

“Last night was good,” Ryan says.

Jon nods, watching Ryan nervously out of the corner of his eye. This doesn’t sound like the start of a good conversation, but Ryan is nothing if not unpredictable. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it was possible for a human to do so well. To hold their own.”

“I’m glad I could be your awakening for Common-Other equality,” Jon chuckles nervously.

“What exactly are you to the Academy? In technical terms. Brendon’s tried to tell me what he knows, but Brendon doesn’t do well relaying information with precision.”

As hard as he tries, Jon cannot for the life of him figure out where this conversation is going. He supposes he can answer the question while he thinks it over, though. “I’m not signed to the Academy. I’m technically in a loosely binding contract with Tom that we signed a decade ago, and one of his conditions with Bill is that I get paid for contract assistance under the table. So technically, I’m nothing to the Academy. Just a promise Bill made.”

“That’s not very secure.”

He gives up on figuring it out himself. “Ryan, _what_ are we talking about?”

“… After last night, I was thinking about your job here. What you do outside of combat is invaluable to Bill’s clan,” Ryan says. “Right now, we’re reaping the benefits of your employment by proxy. Having you is great. But after we part ways with the Academy, I need to know what I have to do.”

Jon blinks at Ryan. “That’s pretty smart.”

“Spencer’s not the only one who can plan ahead,” Ryan huffs. “Besides, it’s my court.”

He nods, agreeing with the sentiment more as he considers it. He’d been thinking of Panic in terms of either a collective of new kids or as Pete Wentz’s pet project, but when Jon focuses on the dynamics of the court itself, it’s clear that Ryan calls the shots. He’s got Brendon doting on him and Spencer doing that maybe-telepathic thing with him and Brent deferring to Ryan’s judgement for everything.

That does raise a question though.

“What _is_ Panic to Wentz?”

Ryan snaps his gaze over, focusing on Jon intently. “He’s our mentor.”

“Yeah. Why, though?”

“He saw that we’re good. Isn’t that enough?”

“I agree with that,” Jon says reluctantly, “but honestly I don’t understand in the least why Wentz would be interested in putting more Masqueraders in the world. Just a couple years ago, he was one of the top Hunters in America, and getting turned didn’t exactly change his mind.”

Shaking his head, Ryan crosses his arms. “I guess I can’t be that mad at you. I asked him the same thing when we met.”

“So?”

“He just… changed his mind,” Ryan says. “Met some Others worth knowing. Started questioning what he was doing hunting them down. And then he stumbled into us and had this great idea. He has his own shit to do sorting out unruly Others in Chicago and LA and stuff, but if he could get connections with someone inside the Masqueraders, he could start contributing to the fight against shitty Hunters too.”

“So you _are_ his spies.”

“We’re a donation.”

Jon… well, he doesn’t really have anything to argue with that. “Huh. Okay.”

“He’s a _good person,”_ Ryan says defensively.

“I—” he swallows his response and shakes his head. “Maybe so.”

“What do you have against him?”

“Just that his reputation is built on killing a lot of Others,” Jon says, raising his hands to placate. “He may have changed. I don’t know, I haven’t talked to the guy myself. But the reason he got to be notable in the first place is that he had the highest Hunter kill count in Chicago. I don't know all the things, least of all what's going through Wentz's head, so it's entirely possible that he's gotten his head on straight. That idea just conflicts with everything I've heard about him. So I think I’ll wait and see.”

Ryan sighs.

Jon waits for him to say something.

"So. You interested at all in poetry? I've been writing some and Spencer doesn't appreciate the nuances of written artistic expression."

"Brendon doesn't like it?"

"Brendon likes everything I make. He doesn't count."

Jon snickers.

They don't fight any more about it. Jon considers it a truce.

* * *

**26 February 2006**  
**Tuscon, AZ**

Unfortunately, the Brent Problem doesn't get fixed.

Brent will go missing until the early morning and apologize, and in between, Jon fills in the gap and goes on contracts.

Spencer keeps him company on the railing one evening, in the early part of the night where Ryan and Brendon are still entertaining the possibility that Brent just got lost on his way to the vending machine. But that’s okay, because Jon likes spending time with Spencer. He’s calm in a way neither of the other two are. Brendon is too hyper to calm himself down most of the time, so excited to have people to talk to who will listen. Ryan is like a brooding tempest in the distance, with quick wit like lightning and unimaginable depth. Spencer is neither, riding the line between annoyed caretaker and quiet kid. All of Panic’s court are _capable,_ but Spencer is the only one who truly gives the appearance of someone who is _responsible._

“Brendon really likes you,” Spencer says.

Jon laughs. “I noticed.”

“Sorry,” Spencer says, wincing. “We would’ve tried to keep him under control, but it’s impossible to reign him in.”

“That’s okay. He’s his own person. Besides, I don’t think he’s half bad either,” Jon says. He leans down on the railing and looks out at the parking lot and street of this motel. Golden light cutting through black night. Pretty.

“It’s because you’re ordinary,” Spencer says. When Jon glances over curiously, he smiles. “I didn’t mean it that way, asshole. It’s just, he’s never really gotten to know someone who isn’t at least a _little_ Other. He knows Common folk exist, he’d just never really talked to one for more than a couple minutes. I get it, I guess. Others always have some kind of power or gimmick to fall back on. It’s how we’re defined, like the in-your-bones kind of definition. But you humans don’t have any such limitation.”

Jon snorts. “Because I have _every_ limitation.”

“I was trying to put it politely,” Spencer frowns, annoyed at his failure to cooperate.

“No need to sugar-coat. I can take it.”

“Well, fine. You’re fragile. I’m pretty sure Bren was just in awe that someone who’s on the same level as the Hunters we kill could be so important. To Tom, and to your clan, and to the whole tour.”

“Sure,” Jon nods. “I could see how it could be hard to reconcile that.”

Spencer hums.

Jon debates bringing up how Spencer and Ryan don’t seem opposed to him either, but that’s too close to fishing for compliments for his taste. He knows that he gets along with them. He knows it from the way Ryan doesn’t glare at him for getting close when he’s writing poetry, and from the way Spencer will tell him the most embarrassing thing someone did recently even if they yell at him in protest.

“We should go find them,” Spencer mutters seriously. “We have to get ready. Big contract tonight; Beckett’s chaperoning.”

He nods. He saw the papers when he was printing the intel. Panic’s contract tonight has them up against seven Hunters. They’ll be outnumbered, but only barely. With Bill coming along, it should be fine. Either way, he stands up straight. “You take the top floors, I’ll sweep the main floor and all the facilities?”

“See you in a bit,” Spencer nods.

* * *

**29 February 2006**  
**(between AZ and CA)**

  
“You’ve been playing substitute quite a bit,” Tom points out on one drive.

Jon has the excuse of being the driver, so he doesn’t have to look at Tom. He doesn’t want to, because Tom’s absolutely right. Brent’s still around, but he’s disappearing with alarming frequency. William hasn’t gotten on Panic’s case about it yet, but that’s only because every time Brent runs off, Jon takes the job. With everything running relatively smoothly, the only thing going wrong is tension when Brent comes back. And there’s a lot of it to go around.

“Jon,” Tom says. “Dude. It was a rhetorical statement but I already know. The kids come up and ask me every night if they can borrow you.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jon asks.

“Nothing’s wrong with helping. I’m just concerned,” Tom says. “Like, what’s your endgame here? You’ve been catering to them for weeks now. Getting them coffee, breakfast. Driving for them. Are you doing it to impress Wentz?”

“What? Wentz has nothing to do with it,” Jon says. “I don’t really care for the guy.”

“So why are you acting like their nanny?”

“Because we’re supposed to be their fucking mentors, _Tom._ That’s what this whole god damn tour _is_. You never complained about me doing favors for the Academy.”

“Because you’re part of the Academy!”

“ _No_ , Tom, I’m really not,” Jon says sharply.

After he says that, Tom falls quiet. The sound of the engine and the road fill the air in comparison. He can even hear the vampires sleeping away in the back under thick blankets.

“I’m _yours_ ,” Jon says after the silence drags on.

Tom exhales slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tom rubbing his face with one hand. “I don’t… you _know_ it’s not that simple.”

He’s right about that. Jon sighs too, knowing he has to admit defeat. “Yeah. I know.”

When Jon found out, those first few weeks were the most dramatic and emotional part of their entire friendship. Tom had shared his lycanthropy because he didn’t want to cut Jon out of his life, but neither of them had realized that was only the tip of the iceberg.

Explaining everything about Others meant unveiling an entire new world to Jon - one where magic is real and genocide is common and nearly everyone has some sort of superpower. The idea that with enough illusion, a vampire can pick someone off the street, kill them, and make it so nobody even notices they left. The very concept that by saying a few wrong words to a faerie - even ‘thank you’ - you could accidentally sell your soul. Not to mention that other realms exist.

So, the two of them set some rules. If Jon was to get involved Other business (and Tom offered frequently and repeatedly to let Jon walk away), then he had to stick close. He had to very clearly be under Tom’s protection so that he wasn’t seen as a snack. He had to let Tom speak for him until he learned the ropes. And, most importantly, he had to ask permission before doing something without Tom.

It was all for his own protection. It was well-intended.

“Does it feel like I own you?” Tom asks quietly.

“Not really,” Jon says. “It feels that way when we’re around others. Like I’m your pet. But not when it’s just us.”

“The Academy, they don’t—“

“They haven’t been Common for a long time,” Jon interjects. “In comparison, I’m about as powerful as a squirrel. I’m convenient to them, but I’m only here because you are.”

“I only ever made those rules so that nobody would hurt you,” Tom says. “So many people would try to hurt you. Or turn you. You’re just so… human.”

“Witches are biologically human,” Jon says. “Nobody frets over Butcher. The only difference is that his ammunition is much more versatile than my bullets are.”

“You always have my permission to do what you want. Those rules were so that I could keep you from being seen as a target. That was back when you didn’t know the culture, though,” Tom explains. “So, this isn’t a conversation about what you’re not allowed to do. I just want to know what you’re doing.”

Jon’s quiet. He doesn’t know what to say when he feels like he doesn’t understand Panic. He’s only just gotten past the stage of acquaintance, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything more than a friend. He’s still an outsider.

“If they ask you…” Tom sighs.

At that, Jon gets even more tense.

“Oh god, did they _already_ ask you?” Tom worries.

“No,” Jon assures. “No, fuck. Haven’t said a word about that.”

They haven’t. Nobody has asked him if he would join them for more than a single contract. Not even Brendon and all his starstruck-enamored adoration. Brent’s still their fourth, even if he’s become less reliable. That doesn’t mean _Jon_ is what they’re looking for. And it’s not like he can bring it up. He’s not even Other. He has no right to ask.

But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t _thought_ about it.

“After this tour, Pete’s gonna send them on another one. One without the Academy. I wouldn’t be there,” Tom says slowly, like he has to get it through Jon’s head. “If that’s even on the fucking table, I need to talk to them. They’d need to understand how important it is that they claim you, ‘cause I have no idea who’ll be on that tour and how they treat humans.”

“Tom—“

“If you’re even thinking of leaving me, you need to be safe,” Tom says. “Do I need to talk to them?”

“…I’m just making friends,” Jon says after a long moment. “Let’s see how it goes. I’ll tell you if there’s any indication they need that talk.”

“Okay, then. Cool.”

* * *

**2 March 2006**  
**Las Vegas, NV**

It’s a night after another substitution, and Jon wishes he was in bed, but he walked into his and Tom’s hotel room and found Mike pacing furiously.

“Hey,” Jon says, confused but cautious. “What’s—”

Mike rounds on him with a face twisted in complete anger, and it stops Jon mid-word.

He swallows nervously, feels sweat breaking out. Tom isn’t in the room. But Jon doesn’t think anyone but Tom (or maybe Bill) is capable of making Mike this angry, so speaking his name isn’t the best idea.

 **“Follow me,”** Mike sa _y_ s sḻ̊o _wl_ y.̳̀ _His ̟͛voice ̳͋is si̹̒lk̖̂y̘͂ ̗͠sm̲͠oo̭t͠ͅh, ̛̖an̜͗d̦̽ i̪̍t͕̕ ri̹͂ngs ȯ̜ut ͔͘l̡̉o̰͌u̱̅d̪͊l̹͆ý͜ and͇̀ ̦̈́echõ̥es ̥̕ȉ̥n ͔͝J̟͠on͜͝’s̺͒ ̪̐m͍̂ind̪̽. Ő͟v̰͋er ̫͒a̩͞nd͈̂ oveȓ͈ aņ̉d ǫ̀v͙͋eŗ̕ ͒͟ã̺n̙̽d̺́ ̺̏o̘̐ver̢, hȩ̇ h͔̑e͎̕ars͙̈ ̺̿t̩̉hę͛ ̤́ẇ̧ỏ̞r̖͠ds͈͌ echo̩̿ ̙͌an̮͞d ̛͓e̡c̢͛h̻͞o, mud̪̐dli͇͘ng e̤͗ve͇r͖͒yt͓̂h͓͑in̡̆g,̢͞ ̩͝ov͚͞er ͋͜ḁ̐nd͘͜ o͇͋ve̱̅ṛ͞ ͆͜a̛ͅn̛͉d͕̐-_

 _Thê̩ n͈̕ẽ͖xt ț̀im̹̑e̥̍ h̥̋e ȟ̻a̗͋s_ a ĉ͖o̢͞nş̏cioǘ͖s thoụ̄ght, he’s walking down the stairs, trailing behind Mike as they descend. He shakes his head and feels his chest tighten as he grabs the stair railing and tries to slow his own legs as they move without his permission. “ _Mike_. What happened? Why are you—?”

 **“Don’t think,”** Mike s͎̽ _ay̼̏_ s, t͂u _r_ n̐ȋn _g̿_ a _n_ d̜͒ _ma͖̽ḳ̔i̫͡ng ȩ͆ye̠͊ c̦̓o̺͒ntact ̪̒ȁ̱nḑ̐ Jo̙͛n st̡͋ar̲̚es ̙͌d̓͜ee̳̚p ̧̆inẗ̜ȍ̳ h̔͜is̖̒ ̮͠eyes ̳̉ȁ̙nd ̠́nevḙr ̺͠wa̦̚n͉̔t͇͑s ͙̌to lo͇̾ok͕͘ ̲͌a͓nywhe͌͟rȩ̿ ̪͝elș̇e̥̽_. **“Obey. Follow me.”**

_H͙̄ę̋’s̢͘ ̰̏no̲̽t t̡͘hin̔ͅk̟̑in̠͞g̲̈, he’s̺̓ ̜͠f̳͒eel̥͠iṋ̍g̬̍.́͢ ̧̊Thé͓ ̜͡w͔̏ords occ̼̆upy h͚͑is ev̧͌ery fuckinḡ̫ ṱ͆hought̜̄,͚̿ ̺̍a̛͉nd ẗ̖h̢͐e̥̔rẻ̫’͕s̛͇ ̃ͅn̠̎o͓͐t ̬̎eno͋͟ugh s̗̉pacẹ͒ ̙̍ǐ̤ñ̗ his b̫̌rai̧̊n ͙͛t͍̀o ṁ̬ul̜̎t̥͆ita͔͂s̝͐k, ͔̃but̼͡ ͚͗he ̹͊č̭an̯̍ ̫̚f̧͌eel. H̰͗e ͇̄c̱̅a̼͐n̎͟ fe̳̋e͈̚l ̳͐t͎̉h̜͒e̘̐ ̦̋sl̯͝ow,̯͆ sickl̙̕y̜̒ ͈̄t͍́hrum͚̐ o͘͜f̃ͅ h̗̊į̾s̏͜ ͖̅he̢̓a̭͗rt̤̅,͎̀ and̦̎ ̝̐ẗ̜́h͢͞e͢͞ ̭̌se͙͡n̬͘sa̖͑ti̧͘on ôͅf ̹̃his muscleś͢ movï̝ng̨̀ on̪̏ ̧̅a̡͊utop̯̈́i͕͞l̢̓õ͟t̯͒,̙͒ ̗̀and ̰̏t̩̉he̺̅ ͈̀ṉ͂um̢ḇ͊i͕͂ṇ͝g ̧̐fee̖̐linġ̙ o͈͛f the̹̕ ͑͜wo͈̅r̬͆ds ͈͗s̏͢t̞̅il͙̿l̪̕ ̜̌r̜̆ị͋coc̗̍hě̙tin͍͆g ovė̩r an͓̅d ó͍ver ̻̀an̥̏d ͅov͇e̦͝ȑ͔ a̞̽nd ǫ̔v̯̄e͇͋r ̣̽an̼̕d ̮̈ove͕̋r ͚̇an̫̎d̙͡-̱́_

Mike pushes him against a wall. Mike sinks his teeth into Jon’s neck.

Jon flinches out of the compulsion, and the teeth buried in his skin tear at it a little, and Mike’s hands tighten on his shoulder and hair like fucking iron, so Jon goes still just as quickly. Now that he’s resisted the mind control again, he tries to figuratively shake it off and kick his thoughts back into gear, thinking and evaluating and wondering what’s happened. He’s behind the motel, near the staircase but beside the dumpsters, and Mike has seen fit to thrall him and take him out back. Jon can’t talk, or he risks Mike’s teeth cutting through something important. So what can he do but stand still and hope that Mike doesn’t mean to kill him? He’s not drinking particularly fast, at the moment, so Jon can hope that this isn’t a fury-fueled murder.

After a terrifyingly long minute, Mike pulls back, licks his teeth, and leans back in to lick over the bite wound. And then he grabs Jon’s jaw. “You tell Tom that he’s not the only one around here who’s worth keeping an eye on.”

And then he walks away.

And Jon leans against the wall, breathing raggedly and trying to calm down and not pass out from blood loss. His brain's working overtime. Okay. So Mike never meant to kill him. Mike meant to scare him, and scare Tom, and maybe get a snack while he was at it. That tracks. It also eliminates Jon's brief (but well-warranted) fear that one of his tour-mates wanted him dead. That would've been much worse than this.

Then, a few moments later - or perhaps minutes (who knows? Jon’s not watching a fucking clock) - someone else walks down the stairs, and Jon hears Spencer’s voice call out, “hello?”

“Hey,” Jon says, surprisingly steady for just having been bitten.

“Jon?” Spencer asks, confused. Spencer’s shadowy figure steps out behind the wall, and he starts walking faster when Jon’s in his line of sight. “I smelled blood from our room and I— Woah, hey, what happ—” and then he’s on top of Jon, leaning in and sniffing and screwing up his face. “What the fuck? Did Mike do this?”

“I really only have the answer to that last one,” Jon says.

“Do you—?” Spencer steps forward without even finishing his question and grabs one of Jon’s arms, pulling it over his broad shoulders. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

“Sounds good,” Jon says.

“What happened to you?” Spencer asks.

“From what I gathered, I think Tom pissed Mike off,” Jon says. He omits his theory that Bill took Tom out for the night. That sort of drama isn’t something Spencer needs to know when the pre-existing rivalry is just as much a factor. “And this is the warning.”

“Shit,” Spencer hisses. “That’s fucked up, dude. That’s _so_ fucked up.”

Jon shakes his head, wincing at the spike of pain the shoots from his neck. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine in the morning. This happens all the time.”

“It shouldn't,” Spencer says firmly.

“He didn’t kill me. I can’t really ask for more.”

“You could.”

* * *

Tom finds him later, of course. They share hotel rooms; of course Tom would find out. He nearly runs off to fight Carden to the death right then and there, but Jon talks him out of it.

"He drank from you because he was jealous," Tom growls. "Like a fucking teenager. He needs to have some fucking control."

"You say, blowing off work to blow off _Bill,"_ Jon says.

"Butcher and Mike had it under control," Tom says defensively.

Jon presses his lips together.

"He should be a professional," Tom says, finally. "I'm telling Bill about this. It's a matter of your safety."

"Tom," Jon says.

"This is bigger than a little fucking _tiff!"_

"I'm going to say this because I love you, man," Jon says. "This doesn't matter, because they're going to kick you out soon anyway. Bill is _never_ gonna pick you over Mike."

Tom's face scrunches up in anger, but his eyes flash wounded.

"You know that," Jon says. "You have to know that."

"Fuck you," Tom spits.

"They've been together for who knows how many centuries. Bill liked you, but he _never_ loved you. And you tried to change his mind but it won't work because he can't love you, Tom," Jon says. "He just can't."

Tom glares at the floor intently. A second later, he stands and kicks the bed frame (which rattles in turn) and starts pacing.

Jon knows, from being Tom's best friend for years and years, that now is the time to shut up. He could talk about how it was a good gig while it lasted, or how Tom didn't belong in a group he wasn't leading, but this is the part where Tom has to pace and think and come to terms. And he will. Though stubbornness is written into the code of Tom's personality, so is survival. Once he has time to think about it, Tom will accept the idea that he'll have to leave the Academy. Even if he'll have a grudge against them for the rest of his life.

He just needs some time.

* * *

**4 March 2006**  
**Los Angeles, CA**

Though everyone’s getting on-edge with Brent, Jon can’t help but feel like he has a right to specifically be freaked out.

Every early morning when Brent comes back, Jon watches him apologize for being gone and try to make it up with donuts or coffee or whatever he thinks will fix this. Jon’s careful to keep his distance, but he doesn’t have a lot to look out for. Brent makes no threats against Jon, hardly notices him at all. In fact, Jon would think Brent didn’t _know_ Jon was his substitute if not for the fact that every so often, he’ll overhear the arguments. Ryan’s always the most volatile, yelling, _“you know, we can’t keep asking Jon to do your job for free, so would you stop dropping the fucking ball?”_ So Brent must know, but there’s still nothing that comes of it.

In fact, Jon doesn’t even know the stakes have escalated until Brendon comes to get him for a job in LA.

“I’m on deck?” Jon guesses when he opens the hotel door to Brendon’s incessant knocking.

“We need to know if you’ll sign a contract with us,” Brendon says.

The words crash into Jon like a tsunami, reducing any witty response he could’ve had to rubble. “What?”

“We made Brent sign a private contract with Spencer the last time he missed one of our actual contracts. If he misses another contract on this tour, he violates the private contract and Spencer is allowed to terminate Brent’s court position.”

“Spencer?” Jon asks, stunned and trying his best to catch up. He knows he has to pay attention to what's being currently said, that it’s all important, but he can’t get over the part where Brendon started this conversation by proposing a new contract. “But it’s Ryan’s court, and even then, you’re the only one who has a predisposition to keeping people to their word.”

Brendon’s lip wobbles slightly. “Neither of us had the heart. We would’ve let him…”

Jon frowns in sympathy. “He’s not here, is he?”

Instead of an actual answer, Brendon just whines and reaches out with grabby hands. Obediently, Jon opens his arms and wraps them around Brendon, rubbing his back soothingly and keeping them both upright.

“I’m so sorry, B. I know he’s your friend.”

“He was,” Brendon agrees.

“... Not anymore?” Jon asks tentatively.

“We made sure that he knew that every time he left without us, he was endangering us. He wasn’t just making us violate our technical terms, he was also putting us at a disadvantage where we were a court without a Sighted. If you weren’t so kind, we would be woefully unprepared for our Hunter contracts. This was serious. He put Ryan and Spencer in danger.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon repeats. He’s not sure if there’s anything else he can do.

“We need help. To alter our contracts, get him out of our agreements,” Brendon sniffles, standing back up on his own.

“Right,” Jon says.

“With him gone— Would you be interested in…?”

When Brendon doesn’t continue for a long pause, Jon thinks he has a pretty good idea where that sentiment was going. But the hesitance makes Jon pause too. “Have you spoken with Ryan and Spencer about that? Are they on the same page?”

“Oh, yes, we’ve known for weeks that we’d like you to— wait, how do you—? What do you think we’re talking about?”

“Brendon, you started the conversation by asking if I’d sign a contract with you. You want me to be an officially contracted mercenary for Panic, right?” Jon wagers. “For the rest of the tour?”

“Can we skip that, and just have you in Panic?”

Jon’s heart skips a beat. “Really?”

Brendon nods seriously. “Yes. Please. I know you’re close with Tom and you work for the Academy, but we— I mean, we could really use… Would you consider…?”

For a moment, Jon just smiles, watching how Brendon relaxes slightly at his expression. He doesn’t have to say the words. That’s how he knows he’ll fit with Panic the same way he fits with Tom. Then, he glances at the clock and back at Brendon. “We need to hurry. There’s quite a few things to be drafted up and signed to fix this, and we have a contract tonight.”

“Right,” Brendon agrees, and then he lets Jon grab him by the wrist and walk him down the hotel hallway. Jon’s about halfway to Ryan’s room when Brendon says, “I’m really happy you said yes.”

“I’m happy you asked,” Jon admits, sneaking a soft glance at Brendon before he lets his mind set on paperwork and signatures.

* * *

He tells Tom just before he leaves, when he’s back in their room, grabbing his guns.

“I was right. I was so fucking right. I called this,” Tom gloats.

“Yeah, congrats,” Jon smiles, rolling his eyes. “We have work to do, though.”

“You realize I have to give them the talk now, don’t you?” Tom asks from his hotel bed.

“I’m not your teenage daughter.”

“No, not the _shovel talk_ , the ‘Watch His Back Because _Nobody Respects Common Humans_ ’ talk,” Tom insists.

“Later, though. I’m about to go on a contract. That’s why I got signed, remember? Our jobs?”

“Have you considered what this means for your future?”

“What?” Jon asks. That’s a dumb question. Of course he’s considered the future, but he gets along great with Panic and he can easily see himself continuing that for other tours. "Yeah, Tom, I know I'll be going on tours without you. You do realize we're not literally codependent, right?"

Tom rolls his eyes. “Not in general, dumbass. Have you considered that being in Panic also means being in Pete Wentz’s pet project?”

Jon’s hands go still where he’d been fitting ammunition packages into his jeans.

“You haven’t, have you?” Tom says, figuring it out anyway. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. They’re never gonna cut ties with him, and you’re never going to trust him. You’ll just be the black sheep of the court. That’s fine. At least he’s pro-human.”

“Tom,” Jon chides quietly.

Tom’s quiet for a moment. “… Right. I’ll stop bothering you. We’ve got work to do.” He stands up and walks closer, giving a quick one-handed over-the-shoulder side-hug before headed to the door. “You do your contract with your court, I’ll do mine with my clan, and we’ll both meet up after and drink some beer and you can block me out as I give Panic that talk.”

Jon manages to huff out a chuckle. “Have fun.”

“Oh I will. Mike’s going with _you_ tonight, and Bill promised me that if you end up dead, I get to murder Mike,” Tom grins as he leaves. And then the hotel door slams shut behind him, and Jon’s left shaking his head and counting bullets.

* * *

Things went wrong very quickly.

Nobody could’ve known, of course, that the Hunters they were supposed to kill would have their buddies over tonight. That didn’t change the fact that they were running for their lives through the suburbs of fucking Compton.

Narrow streets lined with mismatched fences and hedges and gates and far too many cars and not enough places to run from a bunch of Hunters with guns. Jon runs with Spencer at his side, and though he can’t hear much over his own footsteps, he can hear yelling and that’s enough to keep him from turning around. He spots a tall, thick hedge at the corner they’re approaching, and realizes it’s enough to obscure them from vision.

“Left, then vault a fence when we round the corner,” Jon grits out between ragged breaths.

“Kay,” Spencer agrees quickly.

They turn with the sidewalk and run past the first house’s hedge. The next back yard, however, is guarded by a wire fence with some kind of wooden structure pressed up against it, but Jon doesn’t care about that so long as they can get over it and hide. Spencer goes first, grabbing the top of the fence and swinging his body up to step on it before he slides over the wooden structure too. By the time he’s over, though, Jon’s stopped watching and instead focuses on pulling himself over too. He fucks up his landing, sending an uncomfortable jolt up his ankle, but nothing so bad that he does anything more than grit his teeth.

Spencer pulls him down and back until they’re pressed up against the wooden thing — a gardening shed, as it happens to be.

Jon pants, but tries to be conscious of how much noise he’s making.

Racing footsteps approach and halt at the corner, and then someone curses and a couple guys argue over which direction to go before they start moving and pass right by their hiding place.

With a rush of relief, Jon looks to Spencer, who’s similarly exhausted. They’ve been sprinting for a few blocks. They don’t have a choice. Things kinda exploded all at once. They’d been trying to break into the house and take out the contracted three Hunters, but they barely got past the living room when a dozen furious Hunters poured in from the kitchen. A party. Lovely timing.

At first, they’d tried to hold their ground and fight, but close quarters weren’t something they were used to, and there were just too many people. It took Brendon getting shot for Mike to call it, telling them to run. Spencer had ran forward, trying to hold the Hunters off so Ryan could help Brendon limp away. Jon tried to lay down covering fire too — give Ryan time to drag him to the car. Around the same time, Mike went fucking all-out, reaching out and crushing spines with his bare hands and kicking bodies into walls and killing everything he touched.

In the chaos, Spencer and Jon tried to make their exit, but there were too many Hunters trying to escape to get out without being followed. And so, Spencer made a hand signal to Ryan in the car, and while Ryan drove off in one direction, Jon and Spencer had run the other way.

“Mike’ll track us down,” Jon whispers.

Spencer pants, leaning his shoulder against the shed while he crouches. “Did you see what happened to Bren? I couldn’t see. I just heard him—“

“Yeah,” Jon says, because he’d heard Brendon’s scream too. Damn near gave him a heart attack. “They shot him right in the thigh. I dunno what anatomy he has, but I think it fucked up whatever his version of muscles are. He was limping, but he didn’t— he didn’t look— I think he’s fine. I think.”

“Fuck,” Spencer hisses. “… fuck.”

With a long breath, Jon closes his eyes and wordlessly agrees. “Ryan had him. They’ll be fine.”

“We need to go,” Spencer says.

“Sure,” Jon agrees. Sitting still won’t make him feel better.

“No, we _have to_. They have a werewolf. Or— had. I couldn’t see, but I knew— you can smell it. Mike might’ve killed it, but if it got away…”

“Scent. Right,” Jon mutters. “Okay. Let’s go that way, as if we’d turned right. Hopefully it’ll get us away from the ones chasing us and anyone else running away.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods, looking up at the shed. They hadn’t noticed when they had the fence to pull themselves up, but it’s fucking tall. “Gimme a boost, then. I’ll pull you up and we’ll go.”

Jon crouches and locks his fingers. Once he boosts Spencer up, straining to both give Spencer a platform to push off and lift him higher, he waits for a moment so Spencer can arrange himself, then sticks up an arm and lets himself be pulled up. They hit the ground at a jog, headed to the intersection to cross it.

“Run,” Spencer says, eyes locked on the street they came from. “Jon, run!”

He doesn’t need to be convinced. He starts running, still headed in the same direction. It’s all the same when they don’t know where they are anyway. They dash down the street, hearing shouts and threats from behind, and then gunshots hitting the fences and garbage bins around them.

They don’t waste breath on cursing, though, they just run.

The road turns ahead, angling off to the right with green grass from a park on an inside bend. Jon glances at it and the illuminated kid’s playground and judges the distance and the layout. “Spence, park.”

He gives Spencer a moment of running to look it over.

“Hide, we’ll take ‘em by surprise,” Jon says briefly.

Spencer doesn’t respond, but it’s not a no. They run across the last street and change their path, running for the playground instead of sticking to the sidewalk. Jon draws his pistol and changes his direction again, headed for a further tree. He gets behind it and looks for Spencer, who’s taken cover behind metal stairs instead of the plastic slide. Good call, Jon thinks, reloading his gun.

He can hear their pursuers getting closer, though.

He glances around the tree trunk, knowing from experience how hard it is for humans to spot a small target from a distance while running. He counts three of them, all with guns. Enough to overwhelm Spencer if they all stumble upon him at once. So, Jon makes a decision.

Jon lifts his arm, steadies it, and fires, watching one of the three immediately stumble and hit the ground.

The other two curse, scrambling for cover. One finds his cover in the playground while the other drags his friend behind the park’s first tree. Jon can’t see where he hit the guy, but it must’ve been the upper body. Probably shoulder or arm, but maybe somewhere fatal.

He hears it the moment Spencer starts his fight with the playground Hunter, because there’s a scream and a shout and the sounds of blows being exchanged. Jon isn’t very worried about Spencer’s ability to hold his own in a fistfight, but he is worried about Spencer being shot by the other two, so Jon takes aim again and fires a couple rounds at the three they’re hiding behind. Nothing hits, but hopefully it’s enough to discourage them from shooting at Spencer.

That hope is crushed when the unharmed Hunter sprints out from his hiding place headed straight for Spencer.

With a curse, Jon dashes out of cover too, raising his gun and firing.

Hit. The guy falls, shot in the hip.

Jon keeps approaching though, getting close enough to guarantee he won’t miss before he quickly shoots the Hunter in the head. Jon turns to Spencer, who’s holding a limp man in a choke hold.

“Is he—“

“Passed out. I’m aiming for dead, so—“ Spencer cuts himself off and tightens his arm.

“I’ll go double-check the third,” Jon says, glancing back at the tree. “Then we’ll call Ryan.”

“Yeah,” Spencer grunts.

Jon raises his gun and walks carefully towards the tree. He can see legs, bent and propping someone up against the tree, but there’s no telling if the Hunter’s still alive.

And then the guy suddenly leans over with a gun pointed at Jon, and Jon fires before he thinks.

_Not fast enough._

He watches the guy’s body fall, but he feels an impact in his chest. Like someone gave him a shove. And then he just feels heat, and then he looks down and sees his shirt is getting soaked red with his blood.

And then the pain hits.

He’s on his knees, trying to stabilize himself and then Spencer’s next to him, pulling him onto his back, and he gasps at the movement, but it’s only worsened tenfold when his hands press down on his chest. His vision and hearing get muddled and he has to strain, really strain to keep conscious.

“I’m sorry— Fuck, _fuck,_ Jon, can you hear me?” Spencer mutters.

“Is ‘e dead?” Jon asks.

“What? I—“ Spencer sits up, away, and Jon has a long moment to dwell on the feeling of being shot before Spencer nods. “Yeah, they’re all dead. You got ‘em. _God,_ this is bad, I need to call—“

While Spencer takes one hand away from applying pressure to grab his sidekick and call for help, Jon lifts a hand and fumbles around his chest, trying to understand where he’s been shot. When his fingers bump into Spencer's hand, his heart sinks, or maybe it bleeds, because the bullet wound is far closer to his heart than he’d like. Maybe. He doesn't really remember anatomy that well. But it's... right-hand-over-the-heart when you do the Pledge of Allegiance, right? Hah. Allegiance. Funny, because he'd only just promised to be part of Panic, and now it's sort of like he's being inducted as he bleeds out. It's not funny at all, but he can't grasp whatever emotion he should be having right now so... funny it is.

He hears Spencer on the phone, with terse words and directions and demands, but it’s so far away.

He knows that he can’t survive this. It’ll take too long.

“—mnit, Jon? Jon, listen man, you gotta stay awake.”

But Jon can’t think of anything to say that isn’t ‘I’m dying’. But he already knows that. And Spencer isn’t an idiot, so he probably knows it too. Jon wonders if this'll get Tom killed too, when he goes after Mike. It certainly won't fucking help the Academy's stability.

“Jon, they’re on their way, Ryan saw this park on our way over. He knows where we are. He’s coming. He and Bren’ll be here in a minute.”

“Is B okay?” Jon mumbles.

“What? Is— Jesus, Jon, you’re shot and you’re asking about _Brendon_?”

“I wanna know if he’s okay,” Jon says. “Before I…”

“You’re not dying,” Spencer growls.

“My chest would disagree,” Jon says, but he feels his throat close up and he fumbles to bat Spencer away and turn on his side, and then he’s coughing up a mouthful blood, splattering the park grass red, and every cough sends spikes of pain through him and he’s crying from it and he feels something drip from his chin and he can’t tell if it’s tears or blood. And then he collapses on his back again with a _thump_ , without even the energy to shout from the pain. He just breathes raggedly and presses his eyes shut. There’s blood in his lungs. _That can’t be good._

"Fuck. Fuck," Spencer curses. He puts his hands down over the bullet wound, presses down, earns a pained grunt from Jon.

Clumsily, he grabs at Spencer's shirt. "Tell Tom I love 'im. Please."

"Jon, Jesus Christ," Spencer says. "I don't—"

"It's okay," Jon says, closing his eyes and trying to breathe and ignore everything. "'s okay."

"No, it's not!" Spencer shouts.

Jon hums. He thinks about last words. If he has to pick his right now, he's actually alright with comforting Spencer with _'it's okay'._ He can't think of anything better, that's for fucking sure. His brain's running at point-five miles-an-hour (maybe because it's losing blood too? huh). But _'it's okay'_ is alright.

“Let me turn you,” Spencer pleads. “You might survive if I— Jon, Jon I might be able to save your life. Jon, wake up and talk with me.”

“Turn?” Jon tries to say, even though his lips don’t move as much as he wanted them to.

“You know what that means, right? You and Tom, you must—“ Spencer stutters.

“Do it,” Jon says.

“Yeah?” Spencer asks, using his free hand to grab Jon’s left wrist. “You’re sure?”

Jon barely has the energy to nod, but he does, and then he braces himself.

“Okay,” Spencer says.

The hand he’d been using to apply pressure to the would shifts so that his whole forearm is holding his chest down. After another second of hesitation, Spencer turns to the side, lifts Jon’s wrist up, and bites down on it hard.

And Jon stops being human.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start of a big AU I've been working on, with a lot of bands and a lot of tropes but hopefully some new stuff along the way and some fun storytelling. Thank you for reading!


End file.
